Comfortable Monotony Broken
by Writing-Gecko-Girl
Summary: Sauron, in the Void, contemplates his existence and is visited by an old acquaintance.


**Its my opinion that Tolkien was never very clear on the fate of Sauron. In Silm it's said that he followed Melkor down the "path to the void" but in LotRs Gandalf says something to the effect of 'he is a semi-harmless spirit roaming Middle Earth." Since I've explored the latter before, I decided to explore Void idea now.**

**But then I realized how depressing that would be. I remembered a fic ****where Melkor honestly repents and is therefore released (so obviously AU) so I've decided to explore that with Sauron. I personally, think it would be easier for him to repent than Melkor who created evil.**

* * *

Perhaps there is comfort to be found in darkness; in the pure silence of the Void. Perhaps he can find comfort in the never ending monotony that his life, his existence, his very being, has become. Did he not long for order, after all? There is order in nothingness, or at the very least a lack of anything to be unordered.

So he tells himself he is content.

When they thrust him in here, he feared being discovered by Melkor. He feared the mockery, torment, and shame coming from his defeat at the hands of hobbits. Yet Melkor has chosen not to make an appearance. He is, to all extents and purposes, completely alone. Curumo has not made an appearance either, perhaps the merciful Valar have decided to forgive him. Perhaps he ran back to them, sniveling and begging forgiveness. Does he suffer? Trapped in the miserable Halls of Mandos. Or does he suffer the atrocious punishment of hard labor?

But those feelings – the resentment, the anger, the fear, the pain – have faded now.

All he feels anymore is loneliness and longing. And regret. He regrets his decisions now, he wishes he had accepted the hope for a second chance offered by Eönwë, after the War of the Wrath. Then at least, he had some kind of future, some kind of hope. Now he had hope for nothing but the far off Dagor Dagorath.

He heard only tell of what such a battle would encompass, and hopes more than anything, that Eru might find for him forgiveness. Should the Door of Night break, he knows more than anything that he will not stand beside Melkor. He has made that mistake enough times; finally he has learned.

There are times when he almost wishes that Melkor, or whatever may be left of him, would find him. At least he would have company. But the company of Melkor would be sour, and he soon remembers that once Melkor found him, he would never let him go.

So he remains alone and tells himself to be grateful for that.

Yet in truth, he knows that he longs for company. To hear a voice and to see a face. When he was first thrown in here, he screamed until his voice gave out. Since then, he has not attempted another sound. There is no one to hear him, and not even an echo to answer his cries.

Melkor once told him, speaking of Maedhros, that people only scream when they think someone can, or will, aid them. So the silence presses in, smothers him.

He has never dreamed before, but he tries now. He tries to remember what voices sound like, what those he once knew look like, the smell of grass, the warmth of the sun. It devastates him, but slowly his own mind is turning away from him, the memories fading, cheap copies taking their place.

So he stays in the nothingness all alone.

* * *

When the change first starts, he tells himself he has finally gone mad. Surely that is not something he feels under his hands? Surely the feeling is his imagination? He is not even certain he has hands anymore, let alone anything to feel with them.

Yet the feeling persists, this imaginary feeling of hands and ground. Bright light floods his vision and he retracts. The pain he fell tells him he is not imagining this. There is a light, there is ground, and it is burning him.

He hunches and hides, trying to protect his eyes from the light, and yet, he begins to long for the pain. Pain is feeling after all, and feeling is something he has been denied for so long that the pain is at first bittersweet, and then just sweet.

Against his will his face moves, looking back up, and he allows the light to burn his eyes, his skin, his soul; anything that gives him something to feel again.

At first, he does not notice the shadow, but then he sees something moving through the light, blocking a small section of it. And he is afraid; the Dagor Dagorath has come he is certain. Then the light begins to fade, slowly dwindling until it is nothing but a crack, he imagines that a door has been shut and left barely ajar.

There is ground under him, he is now certain. Yet it is no kind of ground he had experienced, more of a kind of hardened nothingness. This is because he knows it is there, yet it has no texture, no temperature, no feeling, really, except the feeling that it is there.

Someone approaches him, and he tilts his head back, trying to see and identify them. The light is too bright, and all he knows is that they are large, frightening, and not Melkor.

So he waits, and continues to stare upward.

"Why Mairon?"

He knows the voice, it is Aulë, his master before he joined the ranks of Melkor. He does not know if he can reply; his voice gave out so long ago after all, and can he answer to that name anymore? There is nothing beloved about him now. So he does nothing, just looks upward into the face that is slowly coming into view. The dark hair and neatly kept beard are the same as ever, but he does not recognize them as something he has seen before, but as something from a dream, or a memory that was not his own.

The Vala crouches down beside him, and studies him intently. Then a hand slowly reaches toward him, and when he does not pull back, it begins to run through his hair. The touch is painful, if not unwelcome. Like everything else in this strange experience it feels almost as if it is happening to someone else, to some other person.

Aulë stays silently beside him for a time, continuing to rub his hair. He stops thinking about how strange this is - having hair, eyes, feeling, sensation – that is all happening to someone else. But he, he is no longer alone and that is far greater than anything else he could imagine.

Aulë tugs his hair, and they are both oblivious to the pain that causes. He wants to speak, to apologize, but he has long since given up on his voice. The hand abandons his hair, and he leans back, trying to find the touch again. Fingers brush his throat now, and rub gently at the flesh.

"Mairon."

Once again the voice sends sharp pain into the other person's ears, but he hardly feels it and tries his voice for the first time since he fell silent. "Lord Aulë." Nothing more than a whisper, but so much more than before. "I am so sorry." Each word is an individual struggle, but there is so much he has to say, before this precious moment is over.

"I know." Aulë's voice is harsh, bitter, unbelieving, and the other person feels the sting of tears.

But he presses on. "I want something I cannot have," he still stutters, still has to think over each word and his sentences are so slow. The other person begins to shake. "I want forgiveness. No more hate."

It's true, it's all he cares for anymore. He no longer wants control, order, power, or even his freedom. He only wants to know that he is no longer hated. Tears spill from the eyes of the other.

Aulë however, is silent, and he knows he will not be forgiven, no matter how much he longs for it. Even if he had the strength to beg it would not help. So instead he takes comfort in what is offered, companionship, and brings his hand to rest on that of the Smith. The skin beneath his is rough and worn from use, and he detects the lingering smell of smoke and fire.

"I never hated you."

He thinks he is hearing things, imagining things, or that Melkor is somehow creating this illusion to give him false hope. But the hand intertwines with his and another comes to rest on his shoulder. The other feels pain, it's true, but to him the feather light touches are good and pure and altogether everything that Melkor is not. So somehow, it must truly be real.

"How?"

Aulë didn't answer for several more moments, during which the hand on his shoulder slipped away, only to slip into his grasp. "I have always pitied you."

"Me too," he said. There was no point in lying now, nothing would save him from this horrid existence. He pitied himself for the choices he had made, and he longed for the second change he would not have until the Dagor Dagorath.

"I was never certain if you deserved my pity."

"I don't." The other had stopped crying now, and he felt a twinge of hope which he quickly crushed.

Aulë's laugh startled him. Perhaps it had been far too long since someone laughed at him, but to mock him. "I almost wish you could see yourself."

"Rather not."

"What if I do not care what you would rather do?"

The other swallowed nervously. He hid the hurt those words caused him, and the fear. Instead he levelly said, "If you want."

"You mean that, don't you? What will it gain you? Freedom?" Aulë still was not mocking, instead he matched the even, emotionless tone.

"No. But maybe a few minutes of company." He does not know if his weak, struggling voice can contain emotion but he tries. He tries to show Aulë the depth of his emotions and how much a few minutes would mean in the face of an eternity of loneliness.

Aulë's arms wrap him completely, draw him close, and drape his cloak around him, and for the first time in so very long sensation returns to his entire body. The other sobs from the pain, but he embraces it and the feelings that come with it. He loves the hand rubbing his back, and the scratch of the fabric Aule wears. He savors the heat radiating from Aule, and the tickle of break on the top of his head. He loves the experience. After a moment of shifting and twisting he managed to pull his entire body into the experience, and no longer feel even a hint of the Void.

Yet he is afraid, so very afraid, because somehow he knows that this will never happen again. At some point very soon Aulë will leave and be gone forever; he won't come back, that is certain. The thought crosses his mind to beg, to sob and make any promise he can, anything for his freedom.

But he has nothing to offer, and begging might send Aulë away sooner. He thinks if he is very, very good (though what that entails he has no guess) he might be permitted to keep the cloak Aulë his wrapped him in. To keep it, a mere trinket to a Vala, as some kind of assurance to himself that their conversation truly happened, that he is not despised, that he is pitied and that is infinitely better. He has no idea how to express this desire or go about earning it, and while his heart aches for it, he wants the sentimentality far more than the sensation.

The other is beyond help now, the comforting tough Aulë has bestowed is burning him, everywhere all at once. He shakes and tremors and cries, the other that came with Aulë.

But the fallen Maia, trapped in the Void for his crimes, only wants comfort. Far too soon Aulë begins to shift, and slides away from him. Still he has no plan of how to go about aquiring the cloak, so he desperately reaches for Aulë's mind with his own. He is startled when he is offered a connection, but quickly gathers together a sampling of his feelings – remorse, fear, guilt, loneliness, longing – and gives the Vala but a glimpse.

He quickly breaks the connection before showing too much, and Aulë silently stands. The other is still crying, but this time they are silent tears. Finally Aulë speaks and his voice is harsh, "What is it you want? I have given you my time and my compassion. What else do you ask of me?"

He feels guilt suddenly, and wishes he had not allowed his emotions to rule him. "Sorry."

"Just tell me."

Wordlessly, because he no longer trusts his voice, he trails his fingers along the hem of the cloak and give it a gentle tug. He cannot speak, his throat is tight, but he must convey his desire.

Nothing happens and he looks down in shame, wishing he had never asked, that he had agreed to take his own word for this.

A heavy fabric falls across his back, and footsteps thud away from him. For several seconds he wonders what has just happened, then he realizes he has just been given what he wanted so badly; but that he is going to be alone again.

This time it is the other who is silent and he who weeps.

Aulë is nearly gone now, all the way to the door, when he calls, "Please! Please wait!" His voice is still so frail, and he thinks he has not been heard. But Aulë stops and waits.

This is his last chance, he only had one thing left to say before the nothingness takes him yet again. The strange ground Aulë brought will leave, and the light will vanish and he, ever morbid, will watch every millisecond of it.

His last words to the Greatest Smith are, "Thank you." Then his head slumps, because he cannot watch that light be taken from him, he is not strong enough. He is not stong enough to consider watching Aulë leave him.

* * *

He does not understand what has happened, but the next thing he knows, a hand has rested on his back and Aulë is asking, "Can you walk?"

Of course he can, if Aulë wants it. His muscles strain and protest and the other whimpers in pain, but he will do this. Once he is on his feet he feels Aulë begin to guide him, to gently urge him to move his legs and walk.

Understandably he is slow, and though he tries so very hard he almost cannot. Aulë expects better though, and prods him to walk. "Mairon," he explains. "They sent me here to judge you, to assess if you had repented what you had done."

He makes an unintelligible sound of curiosity which thankfully prod a better explanation. "We thought you had repented, truly, and earned your release. I was judging you, Mairon, and you did better than I ever could have hoped."

The information is hard to process, because surely Aulë cannot mean that he is going to be released?

They stop walking before he can wonder anymore, and Aulë takes his hand, the one missing a finger, and places it on the door. "Open it." It's not an order, it's a challenge.

He clumsily fits his fingers around the door where it still is barely ajar and pulls. It swings open and Aulë gives him a careful push through.

When his feet hit the ground and feel the tile, when the smell of plants clog his throat, and the whistle of wind asults his ears he realizes his mistake. The other is not an other; it is him. The pain was his and he has somehow held it back this long.

But he starts to sob as the pain hits him now; the old pain he suppressed and the new pain from being out of the Void completely. He has felt nothing in so very long, and everything is agony. Aulë catches him when he falls, and gently lowers him to sit.

"I thought the tears were from fear," the Vala whispers. "It is pain, is it not?"

He nods.

"Do not worry," Aulë soothes, "we can fix this."

Mairon nods and settles against his chest, pain be damned.


End file.
